


Demon in a Bottle

by thiefless



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcoholic Tony Stark, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Homelessness, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark Coparenting Peter Parker, Protective Peter Parker, Secret Identity, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thiefless/pseuds/thiefless
Summary: AU: a homeless, alcoholic Tony Stark is taken in by one stubborn spider-child.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 147





	Demon in a Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. This is just a random idea I had and decided to write out. I kind of ignored canon while making this. This is very loosely inspired by the Iron Man comic of the same name. (Well, kind of.)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy! :)

Here's the thing: Tony was alone, destitute, homeless. 

_Iron Man: no more!_ he silently decreed, saluting the wide open New York skyline with a can of cheap beer and a vitriolic smirk. These days, Tony spent whatever loose change he could scrounge up on the cheapest alcohol money could buy – a far cry from his billionaire's lifestyle, with his old expensive whiskies keeping his blood warm – and he hadn't the strength to resist. Why would he? Everything he had ever cherished was gone, pushed aside by his own hand. 

Petty pickpockets picked what pickings Tony had left in his pockets. Gang crime was surging forward on an exponential increase. Winter was fast approaching. None of those things made for an enjoyable way of life, but he made do as best he could. 

Regardless, this was Tony's purgatory, his retribution, his sentence. He'd accrued quite the debt from Satan over those long years drinking and gambling and fucking his way through life, stepping on those below him, blowing stuff up because he liked the way it burnt. 

This was how it ended. Yinsen's original words were prophetic after all – _Is this the last act of defiance of the great Tony Stark?_

Yes. Why, yes it was.

Rhodey was done making excuses and bailing him out, Happy quit, Stark Industries faced certain bankruptcy – and to top it all of, Tony nuked his tentative relationship with Pepper with such vigour it put his Jericho missile to shame.

And he had nobody to blame but _himself,_ and his weak, utterly fallible, dependency on alcohol. 

God. Just. Look. At. _Him._ Iron Man's legacy was a series of malfunctions. His only saving grace was the fact that his true identity was still under wraps, the world none the wiser. At least he could spare the people he loved from _that_ misfortune.

Becoming a superhero was a pipe dream reserved only for the likes of Captain America – the man Tony's father personally crafted from a revolutionary serum back in the day. Tony must have been delusional to ever entertain the notion that he could have been one himself. 

Huh. Well, the media did always make a point to hammer on the rhetoric that Tony was _certifiable._ Maybe they were right. Maybe–

Maybe Tony was always heading for this. 

(Seriously, fuck fate. Destiny was a cold bitch.)

Tony lay on the cold hard ground below, surrounded by the cold hard people below, in the city that never slept. Sometimes he could fall asleep with the stars twinkling in his eye-line, on his eyelids. Tony looked forward to those nights. He could overlook the unforgiving cold; the thieves licking their lips, lying in wait to loot him of his precious few possessions. 

Unfortunately, the worst nights were ones like tonight. Thick fog polluted the atmosphere – cars and people and noise and traffic – a product of artificial capitalisation; poisoned the sky around him, the air. He couldn't see the stars.

Tony fell asleep that night to the discordant lullaby of a city's unrest.

* * *

Darkness silhouetted the backdrop when he awoke. Limbs aching, protesting, he stretched tired muscles, wiped traitorous sleep from his eyes. One of the first things he learned sleeping on the streets: always be alert. There was no telling what manner of malevolence could befall you in the big bad world. 

Lo and behold: a kid fell from the heavens above, cascading down the side of a building, ripped from the sky. 

See, Tony'd heard rumours of a spider-child that roamed the streets of Queens, protecting the unprotected with his super-strength and incredibly durable webs. A spider-child that, coincidentally, fit the profile of this kid that crashed to the ground below, moving dirt and rubble with the force of his collision. 

Tony was on his feet in seconds. Reaching a tentative hand to shake the boy to consciousness, he said, “You okay there, Underoos?”

The kid jumped out of his skin just a second before Tony's palm made contact with his bloodied sweat suit. 

Tony held his hands up in surrender – a gesture he'd perfected back in Afghanistan. “It's okay, kid. I'm not going to hurt you.”

“That's exactly what someone wanting to hurt me would say,” he retorted shakily. Tony admired his spirit; he still had spunk even when afraid.

“Very true. Of course, if I did want to hurt you, don't you think I would have done so already?” He gestured to the open wounds prominent through those cheap clothes, still bleeding profusely. If Tony were a betting man, he'd say it was a GSW– oh, wait, Tony _was_ a betting man. “You better put some pressure on that bullet wound, kid, unless you fancied bleeding to death.”

Grumbling, the kid took his suggestion, inhaling sharply the second his hands made contact with flesh. Tony winced in sympathy. 

“Can't stay for long,” the kid said. “There's a bank robbery about to happen a few streets over.”

“Yeah, no. You've been _shot._ Spider-Baby is staying right here.” He held up a hand, pre-empting the argument. “I don't care how strong you are, how fast you heal; you're in no condition to take anyone down tonight.”

The kid side-eyed him warily. “I could take _you_ down, sir.”

Ah, there it was. _Sir_ – the honorific he'd been cursed with the majority of his life. Arching a brow, he brandished a hand, waving it down the length of his body. “Obviously.” He couldn't remember the last time he had a shower. Embarrassment threatened to engulf him, but he remained steadfast. Besides, another homeless man on the streets was hardly abnormal. 

Tony roamed his eyes over the arachnid-themed superhero. “What's your name, kid?”

He stared him down. “You tell me yours first.”

Well, the kid sure did know how to bargain, Tony'd give him that. 

Flashing a sharp-toothed grin, and shutting off the better part of his brain, he said, “Tony Stark.”

To say the kid was shell-shocked by the revelation would be an understatement. 

Imitating a gaping fish, his mouth opened and closed several times, half-formed syllables squeaking out, much to Tony's amusement. He'd never had this kind of reaction before. “You're–”

“Yep.”

“But you're–” the kid clamped down the word before it saw the light of day – or, considering the current climate, the dark of night. No matter, Tony knew what he was about to say: _on the streets._

Tony sighed, expelling every inch of his failings with it. “Also yes.” He shook his head. “Now, I believe it's customary for the other party to introduce themselves.”

The kid turned shy. “Promise you won't tell,” he said, voice baby-soft. He waited for Tony's whispered admission, before revealing his own name: “Peter Parker.”

Hm. _Peter_ _Parker_. 

AKA: Spider-Man. 

“Peter Parker,” Tony said, testing the syllables of his name. “That's a good name, kid.”

Vulnerability clouded the kid's– _Peter's_ expression, and some broken part of Tony stirred at the sight. Peter was a child, a teenager, by the looks of it, and there he was, defending his neighbourhood because everyone else had failed him. 

Because Iron Man had failed him. 

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

Jesus – a boy of fourteen gifted with extraordinary powers, and he didn't use them for his own, selfish gain. That already put him leagues above Tony. Maybe even Captain America. At least Cap was getting paid to be America's number one defence against the Nazis. What the hell was New York doing for Spider-Man?

Oh, that's right. Selling newspapers demonising his good heart, manipulating the narrative so as to ensure that Peter Parker would forever be the primary antagonist. J. Jonah Jameson might just be the biggest asshole on the planet, but even he didn't work alone. No, no, no. He had his trusty sidekick: Christine Everhart. Apparently _Vanity_ _Fair_ didn't work out, and she went out in search of a new, up-and-coming superhero to slander. 

Tony didn't know how to feel. Or, he did, but he couldn't quite place the word for it. Was there a word for it? Don't be stupid, of course there was a word for it. They had a word for everything these days. 

“Woah, are you okay, man– I mean, Mr. Stark, sir?”

 _Nauseous._ That's right – Tony felt nauseous. Yeah, that might be from the alcohol. 

“I'm fine, kid,” Tony grunted, stumbling to sit on the floor. After a beat, the kid joined him, unperturbed by the grim. Tony spared a thought for his gunshot wound; the cold, hard, bacteria-infested sidewalk would not help his healing. “Be careful of your wound.”

Peter tilted his head as though his life-threatening injury had escaped his notice. His expression cleared when he remembered his blood-stained hand. “Oh, don't worry about that, Mr. Stark. I heal quick.” Proving his point, he lifted up his hoodie, revealing the angry, healing pink of the entrance wound. “See.”

That was a nifty superpower. Still, Tony did not relax his stance. God, was he actually–? Oh my God, he was. He _was._ He was starting to...care for the kid. Ha! Him: Tony fucking Stark. Him: the Merchant of fucking Death. Him: the Invincible Iron Man. 

Him: the Herculean fuck-up. 

Flatly, Tony said, “That doesn't make me feel any better.”

Peter shrugged, regretting it when the movement no doubt upset the injury. 

“Maybe it's time you went home,” Tony suggested, shockingly gentle. He didn't even realise he could speak in that soft a tone. Howard Stark never could; therefore, Tony had laboured under the illusion that he couldn't either. 

Even though the kid put on a good show of bravado, his mask was beginning to slip, the chinks of pain permeating through every facet of his face. That scrape must be hurting, in spite of his assertion to the contrary. 

“Yeah,” he finally said. Tony heard the exhaustion, the relief. “Yeah, you're right, Mr. Stark. Would you like me to help you back?” His gaze flickered to the empty cans discarded in the spot Tony had previously vacated. 

Every millimetre of Tony froze. “No, thanks, kid. I can manage.”

“Are you sure–”

“Kid,” Tony said, brusque, desiring nothing more than to end the conversation; a conversation in which he'd already revealed intimate details about himself, details he'd rather have kept secret. “I can manage.”

Abashed, Peter quieted. Tony didn't have long to feel guilty for his miniature outburst before the kid released a web, swinging away from Tony – away from the conversation in which he had also revealed private, personal details about _himself_ – probably aggravating his injury. 

Tony looked at the remnant of webbing the kid left behind, made his bed and lay in it.

* * *

The next time the kid flopped beside him with all the proportional strength of a spider, he brought cheeseburgers. 

“The, uh, the news said these were your favourite,” Peter explained, rubbing the hair at the nape of his neck awkwardly. 

Tony only hoped the relative cover of darkness was enough to shield the tears forming in his eyes away from the kid's super-sight. Nobody had ever bought him something unprompted before; nobody cared enough to. Tony was the one barking orders. 

Correction: Tony _did_ bark orders. These days, he wasn't ordering much except the next pint of beer. 

_How the mighty have fallen._

“Thanks, kid,” he managed to utter once his dangerous emotions were safely chained back under lock and key where they belonged. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, growling like a monster parents warned their children about at night, and Tony ripped open the packet and all but wolfed down the burger, any semblance of manners thrown to the wind. 

Peter chuckled, following Tony's example, shovelling food down his chops like a quintessential super-teenager. 

“What's new with you? What brings you back to my neck of the woods?”

Replying through a mouthful of half-chewed food, the kid deflected with a light, “Can't a dude come and see his famous friend without expecting the Spanish Inquisition?” Peter snickered at the mention of the _Spanish_ _Inquisition_ – Tony didn't even attempt to decipher the idiolect of youth. 

“Okay, one: never use _dude_ in my presence again, and two,” Tony hesitated. “Theoretically, you could come and visit me, but I'm wondering why you would.” Putting it another way: what exactly did Peter want from him?

Peter blinked. “Because you're lonely!” he exclaimed with none of the diplomacy politeness would usually call for in this scenario. Tony winced, going to refute the kid's conjecture before he unexpectedly sobered. “And because I'm lonely, too,” he muttered, playing with the frayed hem of his budget superhero costume. 

Tony inhaled sharply. “Yeah, it's a lonely business.” At the kid's curious frown, he hastily changed the subject – “So. How's your patrol going today? Any more GSWs?” – and basked in his rambunctious rambling, the world made just a little brighter in his presence. 

* * *

Much to Tony's ever-lasting incredulity, Peter never stopped dropping by after a hard night's work, bringing with him warm, hot food in the shape of sandwiches, cheeseburgers or, one time, a churro. He never inquired why they always seemed to meet on some back-alley or a doorway of a secluded shop, keeping well away from common thieves and average criminals – such was Tony's state-of-the-art abode. 

If Peter had his suspicions, he didn't voice them. Tony's pride thanked him for it. 

In return for the genuine pleasure of Peter's company, Tony refrained from drinking so much booze around the kid. Colour him shamefaced, but he had no desire for Peter to see the very worst parts of himself. Just because Tony'd never known himself to be a mean drunk did not automatically indicate that he wouldn't become one in the not-so-distant future.

And, God help him, but... Tony didn't want Peter to look at him through the same lenses the rest of the world did. Because he, y'know– _cared_ for the little tyke. 

“You don't have much in the way of street-smarts, do you, Mr. Stark?” the kid asked cheekily. 

Despite himself, an unbidden smile upturned his lips momentarily. Damn it. The kid's infectious enthusiasm was beginning to rub off on him. 

“I have more sense than you do,” Tony replied, nonchalant. “Remind me: how many times did you get socked in the face this past Tuesday?”

Peter, human sunflower that he was, wilted. “That's not fair,” he protested, voice high. “That was an anomaly. I'm excellent in my patrols, sir. Promise.”

Tony nodded, sarcastic. “Oh, I'm sure. I have the utmost faith in your abilities.”

Petulant, Peter rolled his eyes. 

* * *

It didn't come as any great shock when the kid asked after the Avengers. The merry band of superpowered people had ousted Tony Stark as their adviser, citing his many, many issues, too numerous to count. As far as they were concerned, Iron Man had resigned out of principle, solidarity, following the billionaire who signed his pay checks out the door. 

_Ex-_ billionaire.

Tony stiffened at the mere mention of their name; the mere mention of a life he was never good enough to live. 

“Do you know who the best Avenger is?” Peter asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet, expending all that energy. 

Bitter-sweet melancholy clouded his disposition. “Yeah, kid? And who is that?”

Peter's answer was the epitome of hero-worship: “Iron Man.”

Tony asphyxiated on nothing. When his throat cleared, he beckoned the kid to expand on his supposition. 

Peter complied. “He saved my life, Mr. Stark, at your Expo–” Tony's arc reactor glitched in his sternum, guarding the muscle of his bloody heart – “It's funny, actually. I was wearing these cheap Iron Man gauntlets and a mock-up of his mask, and this Hammer drone landed in front of me. All I could think about was Iron Man, what he would do. So, I lifted my hands up, like this,” Peter demonstrated, executing Iron Man's signature move. He dropped his arms, inexplicably embarrassed. “I heard this noise behind me, and freakin' _Iron_ _Man_ was standing right there. He blasted the drone, told me I'd done a good job, and then flew off again.”

And Tony remembered with awful, visceral clarity. The event in question, horrifically narrated by the greatest person Tony'd ever known, crystallised in his memory. _Nice work, kid–_ had been his exact words.

Peter almost _died_. Because of Tony. 

“I was only seven,” Peter continued, naively oblivious to Tony's guilt-attack. “It, uh, sounds pretty stupid out loud, doesn't it?”

“No,” he managed to spit out, unwilling for Peter to labour under the false belief that he was anything other than perfect. “Kid, you're not stupid. Nothing about you is stupid. Far from it. You're – and trust me when I say this, Pete, 'cause I know what I'm talking about – you're the greatest superhero the world has ever seen. You've put Iron Man to shame a thousand times over.”

Eyes widening in innocent amazement at Tony's earnest words, Peter started. Who would've known raw, unadulterated praise would be enough to bring the kid to silence?

Tony shifted. He'd lived under the limelight for the vast majority of his life, yet there was something about the way Peter looked at him – like the kid valued the things he said, not out of any sycophantic greed, but out of real sincerity. Like he was worth listening to. 

Like Tony was someone to be looked up to.

“You really believe that, Mr. Stark?” the kid whispered, completely soft as though afraid to upset the moment.

“Yeah, kid. I really, really do.”

* * *

However, because Tony was categorically _not_ someone worth looking up to, his susceptibility to alcoholism reared its ugly head once more. Only, this time it could not hide behind Peter's youthful innocence. The elephant in the room had been shot to death; the true nature of Anthony Edward Stark laid bare. 

Tony was inebriated. Heavily. He'd chanced upon a hundred dollar bill some unlucky businessman had dropped as he side-stepped over Tony's reclined form on the sidewalk like his very presence was a disease. Time to get black-out drunk. 

(Yes, it was as terrible as it sounded.)

Because he was starring in a comedy of errors, that was when Peter turned up. Time had become an irrelevant matter – in this state, Tony couldn't even differentiate right from left – so it was impossible to pinpoint _when_ exactly the kid plonked down beside him. Tony had enough presence of mind to feel a dissociated form of panic, but Dutch courage swatted his fears away. He'd mastered the art of mimicking sobriety even when he replaced all his blood with alcohol. Good to know his superpower was still intact. 

Peter squinted, and Tony was about to comment on the comedy of such an expression before the kid suddenly asked, “Are you an alcoholic?” without warning, as blunt as could be – a tactless remark, divorced from any concept of propriety. 

Tony blinked. The movement felt slow, even through the nebulous haze; every single muscle of his eyelids contracting. His hands were shaking – dead giveaway. No words were uttered by him. He couldn't articulate them even if he wanted to. 

The world still spinning in slow time, he noticed Peter open his mouth. Doubtless, it was to chastise him, to rat him out, to deliver the lecture Tony'd heard a thousand times before: _How could you do this? I believed in you. Everything bad in the world has been caused by you. It's all on–_

“You should come home with me.”

...nope, that he was not expecting.

“What?” Tony asked, voice hoarse and rough and blurry around the edges.

“I can let you sweat it out on my couch,” Peter offered, firmer now, pure conviction permeating through his tone. 

“Kid, I'm flattered, but I can't impose–”

“You wouldn't be an imposition, Mr. Stark. Honest. May's a nurse, so I know what to look out for, if that's what you're worried about,” he added. Tony's heart sank. Here this wonderful, darling child was eagerly talking about monitoring Tony fuckin' Stark through the haze of withdrawal – a withdrawal that would have been obsolete had Tony not drunk his entire body weight in alcohol every night. 

How the hell did someone so pure as Peter exist in the same universe as the Merchant of Death? 

Tony shook his head, resolute. “Peter,” he said, a tad sharpish. “No.” Gentling his tone, he amended, “I can't ask that of you. I just– can't.” Like hell if he was willing to put Peter through that.

Determination still bled across the kid's face, but he temporarily resisted trying to convince Tony, acquiescing for the time being. 

Tony still had scotch left in the bottle, but he couldn't drink it. Not now, not with the kid. Every atom of his body cried out in indignation, screaming at him to down the bottle, finish the job, do the one thing he knew how to do and how to do it well, but–

He just _couldn't._

Peter plucked the bottle from his lax grip, Tony allowing him. He stayed with him, after, even as Tony soon fell asleep, succumbing to his drunken stupor.

When Tony awoke, Peter was still there, keeping him safe from the nightmares prowling the streets. 

* * *

After that, Tony didn't drink to that excess again; however, he still partook – beer, cheap wine, a bottle of whiskey when his wallet could afford it. Peter's face flashed through his mind every time he took a sip, but the more he drank the more he could forget. 

The kid hadn't come to visit since. Tony didn't blame him. An alcoholic did not make an exemplar role model. Peter shouldn't have to bear the burden of Tony Stark, thank God he finally wised up.

(And if there was a tiny part of him that missed the kid's presence– well, Tony drowned it.)

Disastrously, Tony decided to go for a walk under the starry Queens sky. It was perhaps the worst decision he'd ever made. 

A gang of ruffians approached him, swaying unsteadily on his feet. They pushed him around, forming a circle around him. Tony tried to push through, but his strength was significantly impaired. Their threats became actions – a punch in the ribs, a kick in the teeth, a knife to the throat, rapid heart pulsing in his carotid artery. Tony didn't catch a look of recognition on any of their faces, so that ruled out one motivation. Maybe it just made them feel better about their miserable existence to hurt another.

By the time he was on the ground, Tony forgot his own name, and the realisation that he was going to die – here, in some back-alley that stank of feet and piss, absolutely sloshed – suffocated him more than the foot on his chest. If he listened closely enough, he could almost hear the sound of his arc reactor splintering in two, yielding beneath the weight.

“Oi, look! It's the spider-freak!”

Tony's lungs gasped for air, the weight lifting all at once. Chaos wrecked havoc above him, but he hadn't the mental faculties to watch, Peter little more than a red-and-blue blur apprehending the criminals that pummelled him into the dirt.

Gunshots reverberated, but there were no cries of pain. Instead, the sound of Peter's webs overpowered them, their collective irritation blending into the background. Gentle hands lifted Tony up and away from the scene of the crime. His eyes had closed during the altercation, but he forced them open. When they were sufficiently far away, Tony pawed at Peter to release him, managing to stand. Peter removed his mask. 

Tony was bleeding, ribs bruised, lip cracked, barely able to stand, and when Peter opened up his home to him, he was not sober enough to remember the reasons why he should refuse. 

Peter's only condition? “No alcohol.”

Tony ran his tongue along the seam of his bottom lip, debating. His knee-jerk reaction was to refuse, to turn down Peter's exceptionally kind offer. Alcohol was the one thing – the _only_ thing – Tony had left in his life; the one thing that was there for him when everybody else fucked off. Look, he wasn't an idiot; he knew alcohol had screwed him up beyond all comprehension, torpedoed his relationships, his friendships, his livelihood, Iron Man. Except...

The question was simple: did Tony think himself strong enough to conquer the demon?

He looked at Peter. Peter looked back at him.

Mind made up, Tony grasped the kid's outstretched hand. “No alcohol.”

* * *

May Parker surveyed Tony like he were some rare beast, as though he could pounce at any opportune moment. Yet, there was also an undercurrent of genuine puzzlement – dare he say it, even empathy – at his predicament. 

“Sorry about the state of it, Mr. Stark,” Peter's aunt said. “I'm sure it's nothing at all like what you're used to.”

 _Yeah,_ he mused bitterly, _she'd read all the articles about him._

Tony's lips quirked. It felt strange to wear a smile again. “It's a palace to me, Mrs. Parker,” he said, infusing the words with sincere authenticity, eternally grateful beyond measure.

A hint of a smile dawned on May Parker's face. At her side, Peter's resulting grin eclipsed the sun, provoking a fragile smile of his own. For the first time in his considerably aged life, he felt taken care of. Protected. 

May bandaged the contusions littering his body as best she could – better than any of the doctors Tony once had – and gave him medication to relieve his pain. Peter gave up his bed to Tony (“Sir, please. You're injured.”) and it was only when May also prompted him to take it that Tony laid down to rest in the kid's bed. 

It was a tragic thing to admit, but that was the best night's sleep Tony'd ever had.

* * *

His wounds healed soon enough, and he was adamant that he take the couch. 

The worst part of the detox? Night sweats, hands down. 

Peter's enhanced senses meant that he ended up waking Tony more often than not, heart pulsing loud even to his own ear. Deafening, for the kid.

“It's okay,” he would whisper, fixing Tony a glass of water the colour of vodka, pressing it to his hands, making sure he drank it all, ignoring Tony's half-hearted protests. 

A couple nights later, May woke him up, sitting by his side. She didn't say anything, and Tony didn't know what to say, but she stayed with him until sleep finally stole him away. 

* * *

Tony paid rent with his hands. He fixed the central heating, upgraded the microwave, tinkered with the television – but his greatest achievement had to be the superhero suit he built for Peter. His creation was born out of scraps the kid scavenged from dumpsters – the ultimate masterpiece.

Judging by the awe-strike grin that lit up the kid's face, Peter was inclined to agree. 

“Mr. Stark,” he whispered in fragile reverence. “This– It– I don't– It's _amazing_.”

Now, Tony'd heard many a gush and wax poetic over one of his designs – _weapons_ – but Peter's giddy exclamations were the very best praise he'd ever had the fortune to hear. His favourite.

May's freak out was a lot different than her nephew's.

“What the f–?”

Right. As it turned out, Peter had told his aunt nothing of his extra-curricular activities – namely, the beating up of criminals and rescuing cats from trees. That was a long five hours. Tony felt out of place during the long heart-to-heart, but Peter wanted him to stay. May coerced a promise from Tony that he would monitor him during his patrols, make sure he was as safe as he could be. 

Tony added, with May's blessing, the Baby Monitor Protocol.

Predictably, Peter was not a fan. But it made May feel better, it made Tony feel better, and eventually Peter accepted that it was for his safety and their comfort. 

* * *

Domestic life suited Tony. No one was more surprised than him. He volunteered to do the cooking – he wasn't exactly a culinary expert, but after having witnessed May somehow set fire to water he figured he could step up. Help out around the apartment. It was the least he could do. 

Peter enjoyed having him around, and Tony enjoyed feeling useful. He helped the kid out with his homework, showing him how to code – he even showed him how to tie a tie. 

May, on the other hand, viewed him like he was an enigma, a puzzle, an oddity she had to suss out. He got the feeling that she wanted to like him, to trust him, yet the wariness never left her eyes. He couldn't blame her for hesitating. Not with the mountain of ineptitude behind him.

Be that as it may, Tony was getting his life back on track. One step at a time. He wanted to be the type of person Peter Parker would look up to. Maybe even plan his grand return as Iron Man– 

No. _No._ He couldn't go back and masquerade as a superhero. All those bridges had been burned. Although, being Spider-Man's sidekick... 

_That_ he could do. 

* * *

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asked one evening. May was working late, and it was just the two of them in the apartment. He sat on the couch doing his English essay. Something about _The Great Gatsby._

Tony hummed as he did the dishes. He was rather fabulous at it, if he did say so himself. “Yeah, kid? What's up?”

The kid was unusually hesitant. It was enough to have Tony a little worried. “I was wondering if I could ask you a question? You don't have to answer it if you don't want to.”

Giving him his full and undivided attention, Tony said, “Go for it.”

Peter took a breath. “Are you Iron Man?”

Every cell of Tony's body froze, _Error 404_ message blaring in his skull, as his brain's Wernicke's area refused to translate those four little words: _are_ and _you_ and _iron_ and _man._

What the– How the hell was he supposed to play this?

Lie? Spout out a half-assed denial? _Don't be ridiculous,_ or, _have you lost your damn mind?_

Do the Tony Stark™ thing, and make a joke out of it? _You been watching conspiracy theories again?_

Simply tell the truth? _Truth is: I am Iron Man._

In the end, he said none of those. Peter read the answer from the lines on his face. 

“How.” Tony's voice was too coarse, too rough. “How did you know?”

With a contrite shrug, Peter simply said, “I guessed.” He gestured to Tony's sternum. “You're very protective of your chest, where Iron Man's arc reactor would be. Iron Man disappeared when you did. Iron Man only existed after you escaped from the cave.”

Tony flinched as the kid listed the evidence. Afghanistan, and what the Ten Rings had done to him, was a trauma that Tony had never let heal. 

Peter continued, “My suit is _perfect._ It's amazing. It's like a skin-tight Iron Man costume.”

“I'm a skilled mechanic,” Tony deflected. 

“You knew exactly how to make it. You accommodated for my enhanced senses; you built a heater, a parachute, and an A.I. for me.”

A loaded beat. 

“I'm a _very_ skilled mechanic.”

Peter was unconvinced. “You are. So, if you can do all that, then it only stands to reason that you're the one piloting the suit. Why let anyone else do it when you can do it yourself?”

Tony broke their standoff. He rubbed the nape of his neck, extraordinarily exhausted with the world and all its little secrets. “Most people just accept that Iron Man's my bodyguard. They don't ask many questions after that.” Mainly because nobody in their right mind would believe that the most famous mass-murderer in the history of America would suddenly grow a conscience and help those he had put in harm's way. 

Peter crossed his arms. “I'm not most people.”

Gratitude swelled in Tony's breast for this kid he cared a great deal for – _loved,_ maybe, if he only knew what that looked like. “No,” he murmured, brimming with parental affection. “You're not.”

He sat down next to Peter. 

“Will you ever come back?” Peter inquired, his earlier tentative nature coming into play. “As Iron Man?”

The truth was ripped from him, screaming as Tony enunciated every consonant, every vowel crystal-clear: “I don't know how to go back.” He felt as though he'd aged a thousand years in this small stolen second. Regretful, he admitted, “I don't know if I can.”

“Bullshit,” replied Peter with such ferocious resolve it took Tony aback, sending him reeling. “So, you've made a few mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes. _I_ make mistakes.”

“Not,” Tony said, “like I did.”

“What.” Nervousness cloyed Peter's features, yet he pressed through with a valour that never failed to impress Tony. “What happened?”

Words became stuck in his throat, deep-seated trust issues and preservation instincts stifling his prior honesty. So far, he was able to preserve whatever positive image Peter could see in him, but if Tony were to give voice to his mistakes, his failings, he feared his reputation would be tarnished. He didn't want the kid to, you know, think less of him. Because–

Family. Peter Parker and his aunt were Tony's _family._ And it was beautiful and intricate and fragile. One wrong move and Tony feared it would fracture. He didn't want to lose them, to lose the home he'd been invited into. He cherished it with the battered remains of his heart. 

Part of loving them meant respecting them – part of respecting them meant trusting them, and part of trusting them meant – they deserved the truth. 

The _whole_ truth. 

Looking down at his hands, shaking like a drunkard's, he blurted, “I drank too much. I made mistakes because of it, and I drank more to forget them.” Tony's recently-acquired morality did not detract from the fact that he'd lived without scruples for the vast majority of his life so far. “I'm not someone you should look up to, kid.”

Peter edged closer, close enough that he could feel the heat roll off him, transfusing him. “I disagree. Yes, you've made some mistakes–” Tony barely resisted snorting at the severe understatement – “but that's why you're my hero. All you wanna do is fix them. You're here right now fixing yourself, and you know it might not work but you're doing it anyway because you know you have to try.” He ducked his head. “I just– I admire you, sir, and I would be lucky if I had even half of your courage when I grow up.”

Warmth blossomed in Tony's chest; a feeling he knew he did not deserve but would cherish all the same. God, he _did_ _not_ deserve this kid. This kid embodied everything good about the world and somehow multiplied it tenfold. 

Overwhelmed by the sharp punch of endearment that immersed his being, Tony tenderly drew Peter into his arms. It was the first time he'd ever really embraced the kid – embraced _anyone,_ really – with complete sobriety. It felt...nice. More than nice. He pressed a kiss to the kid's forehead, unable to appropriately convey what he was feeling in words. He hoped Peter would appreciate the sentiment; would be able to translate it. 

_You got it the wrong way around, kid,_ Tony wanted to say if only he could find the words, the vocabulary, the lexicon, to communicate his gesture. _You are everything. If I possessed even a hundredth of your kindness, I would be a far better human than I am today._

Alas, Tony was an inherent coward, so in silence his declaration resided.

* * *

Peter foraged for gadgets, scavenging through dumpsters (“I'm channelling my inner Rey, Mr. Stark.”), and Tony put them back together again. With a few improvements for good measure. Holding pieces of tech in his hands, mind working to fix the problem at hand, made Tony feel more alive than he had since he fought his way out of that cave – and getting to savour that joy with Peter made it feel a thousand times better.

Peter was still heavily grounded, so most of the gadgets they tinkered with and invented hadn't yet gone for a test run. Spider-Man paraphernalia littered the kid's bedroom. 

“Are you going to make an Iron Man suit?” Peter asked one afternoon, quiet so as to avoid May overhearing. Tony almost had a heart attack at the prospect. “I can help you, if you want.”

Tony changed the topic, Peter finally cottoning on to his apprehension. 

There was once a time where Iron Man represented the best parts of Tony – the parts of him he never allowed to see the light of day. Along the way, Tony infected even that as he did with every other thing in his life. Iron Man oxidised, rusted, capitulated under his arrogance. No, it was too late for him. 

Sometimes, it was best to simply let sleeping dogs lie. 

* * *

Eventually, he landed himself a job. A proper job with proper wages – Peter shouldn't have to sell Spider-Man pictures to a newspaper that tarnished his name at every turn. It was time to repay their generosity. 

What he said to Peter was true: Tony was a very skilled mechanic. There was good money to be made just for loaning out the use of his hands. Money he could then use to fund Spider-Man, to become his benefactor in place of the cheap-ass son of a bitch, J. Jonah Jameson; money he could use to pay actual rent to May Parker and keep them all afloat.

Funny. It never once occurred to him to move out. All that mattered to him was assisting the family he'd grown to love.

Peter did not mention Iron Man in his presence, to which Tony was immeasurably grateful. The lightning bolt of fear that rankled through his tired old bones thanked him for it. And it's not as if he'd never thought about it. The only conceivable way Tony would ever return as Iron Man would be to aid Spider-Man – if the situation was so dire that he _needed_ him to. 

What could he say? Peter was his Achilles heel. A fact it would be better he not flaunt, lest the enemies he'd made in every corner of the world caught wind. Tony would keep his love on mute. 

* * *

Uncle Ben was a ghost in the Parker's apartment, corporeal enough for Tony to notice – spiritually if not visually. Yeah, that sounded whacky. Maybe it even was. But Ben Parker was present in every decision Peter made, Spider-Man related and not; he was present in May's voice, in her fierce protectiveness over their nephew; he was present even to Tony. From what he could gather from the little nuggets of information the Parker's dropped, Ben was the type of guy who would lend a man the very shirt off his back, for no reward. The exact antithesis of Tony. 

Ben Parker was the entire reason why they opened their home to Tony, a way of preserving his memory and everything he stood for. Peter's uncle crafted him into the man he was growing into, and May's husband could be heard in the words she spoke, in the air she breathed. 

Not even Tony was immune to Ben's influence. The very opposite – he was tangible proof of how his influence had determined his fate, eating the same food as the man's family, alcohol the furthest thing from his mind. Tony could never repay them; he didn't know where to start. 

Protecting them seemed to be as good a place as any. 

* * *

Tony's protection would be warranted a lot sooner than imagined when Loki summoned aliens to New York. Fuckin _again._ Apparently, he didn't get the memo the first time round. Either that or Loki liked getting beaten into the dirt. 

Ordinarily, Tony wouldn't be one to judge (okay, that was a bare-faced lie) but when Queens' very own friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man – yeah, the one who right at this second was supposed to be on a field trip – felt compelled to fight alongside the superheroes Tony left behind, his hatred for the self-proclaimed God of Mischief skyrocketed. 

Enter: Iron Man. 

So, yeah. Long story short: Tony lied about not building a red-and-gold variant of his classic armour – a lie by omission if anything. Of course, he built a suit. If he felt he could manage it, the whole world would be protected by a suit of armour. It's what Planet Earth needed to ensure its survival against any and all alien lifeforms hell-bent on its destruction. 

And like hell if Tony hadn't built provisions to keep his family safe. 

“Stay here!” cried Tony through his metallic modulator. May had been thrown to the floor by the second explosion, her previous shock at seeing Iron Man manifest in her living room giving way to anxiety as to Peter's whereabouts. “I'll find him. I'll keep him safe. You have my word.”

Waiting for her permission, and her wordless admission that she would stay safe while Tony hunted for their kid, he took off. 

He did not give credence to the potential ramifications of his interference, his resurgence. They were remarkably unimportant – and wasn't it funny, that something that had frightened Tony for so long, had led him to find solace in a bottle, was now deemed so unimportant? Nevertheless, they did not matter. None of it mattered.

Only _Peter_ mattered.

(And in spite of, well, everything, it felt...good to be back in the suit. Doing what he loved, what he thought he could never do again. As soon as this was over and Peter was safe and sound, he vowed he would go out patrolling with the kid – Spider-Man and Iron Man, guarding the neighbourhood from the horrors of the world and beyond.)

In his periphery, he could see the Avengers fighting like the boy band they were, Captain America the lead singer and all the rest nothing more than background dancers – the group Tony once was a part of. 

Tony turned his back on them. He had a Spiderling to find. 

And find him he did. Peter was decked out in all his red-and-blue finery – finery Tony personally hand-crafted and refined for his use – taking down three alien lifeforms with expert finesse. Tony was almost impressed. ( _Almost_.) 

Iron Man landed beside him, blasting an especially rowdy ugly-looking alien straight in the eye socket. It fell to the ground with a _clunk_. 

Peter whirled round. Spider-Man's eyes, which had previously been narrowed in a combative stance, were blown wide in shock at who he just saved his arachnid-hide.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter's voice came through loud and clear on Iron Man's earpiece. "What are you–”

Tony bypassed pleasant courtesies. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Um.” The kid was stalling. It was an abysmal effort. “My job?”

“No, no, no. Your job is to be the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. Nowhere in your job description does it include _taking down extra-terrestrial beings when you should be on a goddamn field trip.”_

Spider-Man's mechanical eyelids blinked. “I have a job description?”

“Don't try and change the subject. The adult is talking here.” Tony exhaled. Shit – he sounded like Howard. “You shouldn't be here. You should be safe.”

“Look around!” Peter flailed his arms. “Nowhere is safe. Nowhere can protect me, but _I_ can protect this place. I have to.”

The sentiment resonated deep within Tony's soul. Softening his voice, he said, “No, kid, you don't. This isn't on you. You shouldn't have to do this.”

“Why not? Why can't I fight like you?”

Taking a breath, Tony blurted out the truth: “Because I need you safe, kid. I can't do this if I can't have that guarantee.”

“That's an underhanded tactic,” Peter pointed out. Tony agreed, but if it kept him safe, he would do whatever it took. 

“You know that really old movie _Titanic?_ ” Tony asked. 

Spider-Man nodded at the non-sequitur, enthusiastic, all puppy-esque and giddy, not even remotely concerned about the current threat roaring around them. 

“You know that part where Jack puts Rose on the lifeboat–” Tony couldn't, for the life of him, compute why the hell he remembered their damn names – “and she refuses because she wants to help him. And then she ends up in the water with him, and Jack gives her the door because _she stayed with him,_ which meant that he died in the freezing-cold water?”

Peter's reply was less than enthusiastic now. “...Yeah?”

Tony breathed a harsh sigh. “Stay in the damn house, kid. That's an order.”

Deflated, Peter conceded, though not without informing Tony that that was a terrible analogy, and that he really should have come up with something greater – “Preferably something _Star_ _Wars_ related.”

“I'll bear that in mind,” said Tony before Iron Man ascended. 

Memories of the past, interwoven with false, artificial visions of the future, swarmed in Tony's mind as the Second Battle of New York raged around him. His untreated trauma about the wormhole, about the merciless grasp of space, about the cold certainty of death, engulfed him in the present, sending his judgement careening off-kilter. His heartbeat thundered in his veins, rattling against the bars of his ribs – a very human prison. 

Up ahead, Clint Barton was doing a fine job impersonating Katniss Everdeen, complete with flaming arrows. Tony had commissioned those; it was good to see them put to use. At least they still prized his inventions, if nothing else. 

“Hey, Shell-head!” a distinctive female voice called. Tony shifted in the suit, and Agent Romanoff's bruised face cleared in his visor, tethering him to the right here, right now. “Glad to see you. We could use a hand.”

Tony nodded once, sharp, and became Iron Man again: stoic and dispassionate; the ultimate machine. Leaving behind Tony Stark and his many imperfections. 

It was remarkably uncanny, how quickly his body settled into command of the armour, muscles running on sheer memory alone as if by autopilot. Eerie, almost, but in a good way – if that made even a lick of sense. It probably didn't. 

(Wait, stop. He was going off on a tangent here. Time to reel it back in.)

Back to task at hand: Iron Man intervened in a scrap between the star-spangled American icon and an entourage of angry aliens, firing repulsor beams at them one by one, picking them off like flies until it was just him and Steve Rogers. 

Cap tipped his head. “Thanks.”

With a nod in return, Tony turned back around and formally entered the fray. Banishing his former anxiety, he battled with everything he had and then some, pushing the suit to the very extremes, constructing a barricade around a centre area in Queens and maintaining the line, allowing no E.T. wanna entrance, waging war from on high. 

It was fine, it was good – _Tony_ was fine, he was good. All good. Until he took his eye off the ball just for a second, only for a second, and then...

Tony was electrocuted, and he _fell–_

Loki and the Chitauri zapped in his mind as his broken exoskeleton began its fatal descent to the Earth below – the wormhole and the all-encompassing fear, stronger than any other fear he had ever felt in all his life – the dark loneliness swallowing him whole–

Iron Man smashed into something hard, and Tony blacked out.

* * *

The first thing he heard when he woke up was a low groan. It took him a while to realize that it was coming from him. The beep of the machines was the second thing that his ears filtered in – a steady rhythm, the steadiest his heart had been since Afghanistan. 

And then the rustling of a second presence became known – a hand atop his, squeezing a little too tight; shallow, irregular breathing; the sound of a chair scraping closer. Coupled together, the signs of an unsolicited intruder next to his previously unconscious body should have startled him, yet all Tony could feel was comfort. Comfort and relief. 

Love – yes, that was there, too. 

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony knew that voice. Knew it like the back of his hand – better, he'd wager. 

Drawing upon the very last remnants of his dwindling strength, he cracked open his eyes, resisting the urge to shut them again when the bright light of the room trickled into his vision. But he persisted, and was rewarded with the sight of a tearful Peter Parker looking down at him. 

“Mr. Stark!” he repeated. That was the only warning he gave before he catapulted himself into Tony's arms, making room for him there. 

Regaining his momentum piece by piece, Tony enveloped the kid in his arms, resting his chin upon Peter's head. “Hey, kid,” he replied, coarse and rough, barely more than a wisp. Peter didn't care. 

“I thought you were dead,” Peter said, choked, confessing into Tony's chest, away from his gaze. “I saw you get electrocuted, and then you were falling and I...”

Tony slammed into something hard. Not something – _someone_. Spider-Man. 

“You caught me,” he breathed, the realisation only just hitting him. Tony pressed a harsh kiss to the top of Peter's head, the kid still not having the courage to look him in the eye. “You caught me. You saved my goddamn life.”

Encouraged by Tony's words or his tone – or maybe a mixture of the both – Peter lifted his head. The expression that greeted him was red, puffy and tear-stained, and Tony would have happily removed his arc reactor in order to get the kid to smile. Peter's nose crinkled in sceptical disbelief at Tony's assessment, yet his eyes, as always, betrayed him, shimmering with delicate vulnerability. 

Tony granted it. “You saved my life, kid.”

“But you could have _died._ ” His voice cracked on the final word, taking Tony's heart with him. 

Tony cupped his cheek, Peter's tears hot against his palm. The kid leant into his touch, and a rush of paternal love charged through him. With a whisper: “So could you.”

Peter closed his eyes, more tears slipping down his cheeks at the action. Tony brushed away the few strays that made it past the barrier, both hands tenderly smoothing the curls from his forehead once their task was complete.

Summoning his most authoritative disposition, he said, “Now, tell me: did we catch that Asgardian son of a bitch?”

Peter chuckled, opened his mouth, and was interrupted by–

“I hope you're not corrupting my nephew with foul language,” May Parker said, announcing her arrival by his doorway. Tony smiled at her presence, waving a lazy hand for her to come in. 

“Give me a break, I'm on bed rest. Foul language is all I can manage, I'm afraid.”

May rolled her eyes good-naturedly, coming to perch on the chair beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Eh.” He shrugged; a pitiful attempt. Now that he was no longer comatose, his abdominal pain made its presence known. Yep, his ribs were bruised pretty much all to hell. _Guess that's the price you pay when Spider-Man breaks your fall._ “Could be worse, I suppose.”

Relief eased the worry lines on her face – relief for _Tony_ ; that he was safe, that he was relatively unharmed, considering the alternative he was too close to experiencing. “Good. I'm glad.” She turned her gaze to Peter, playful admonishment imbuing her words, “Apparently, my nephew is an excellent human trampoline.”

Peter's cheeks flushed even more. Tony could tell that, despite her teasing words, there was a real undercurrent of reproach buried in her tone, one born out of worry. Tony understood. He, too, feared for Peter's safety at the best of times, and now to find out that the kid risked his own neck catching the full heavy weight of Iron Man on his back made it a thousand times worse. 

Because Tony would sell his soul to the devil himself to keep his family safe. 

Sporting the sternest frown he'd ever made, he turned to Peter. “Never do that again.”

“But Mr. Stark–”

“Ah, ah. No buts. You could have died.”

“ _Y_ _ou_ could have died.” Pete turned to his aunt for support.

“Don't look at me,” May said.

Peter sighed. 

“Right.” Tony clapped his hands. “Now that we've established that, what do you say we order some pizza?”

* * *

Amazingly, not one of the Avengers figured out who the man behind the tin can was – either that, or they were very heavily set in denial, which was more than possible. According to Peter, after Tony passed out, Cap helped carry his unconscious body to the Tower's med bay. Peter did end up taking his mask off, and Steve promised that he would not reveal his identity to another living soul. Tony trusted his word. 

While Tony was recuperating in the Tower, Peter and his aunt came to visit him every day. Just like a family. It didn't take long for Tony to regain full strength, and once he did, he set about integrating his newfound family into his Tower. May was initially ambivalent about uprooting their lives and relocating to Manhattan, and even Pete was apprehensive; Tony informed them that this was the very least he could do for them after all they had done for him, and staying in the Tower would help Peter through all his Spider-Man pursuits. 

In the end, they agreed. Within the following month, Peter and May had formally moved in. Peter's friends went ballistic.

That wasn't the only change. With the silent support of Peter and May Parker alongside the very vocal endorsement from his former Avengers comrades, Tony publicly dethroned his superhero persona, leaving Iron Man to the mercy of the journalistic vultures. It was the responsible thing to do. No more mindless mechanic jobs; it was time for Tony to put on his big boy pants. He had a family now. 

Life wouldn't be the same again; it would be _better._ Tony would make sure of that.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed it! :) Thank you for reading.


End file.
